Watchmen for the Morning
by ithinkyourewonderful
Summary: A short interlude - Patrick comes home after a long night.


He sighs as he walks into his house, still and silent as it can only be at this time of morning. For it is morning. He can tell by the faint light from the window, the way he can make his way without having to put out a hand in the dark.

He sheds his coat, his hat, hanging them in weariness. He's hungry, but even more than that, he's exhausted. Another long night. His thoughts fragmented as he walks up the stairs. He isn't sure if he's getting too old for this, or just too tired. Neither option pleases him. He steps over the third step from the top - the one that creaks - he doesn't think about it, does it as he's done after every late-night call since Tim was a baby, since Laura was ill. He opens the door to his right, slightly and silently, and takes in the sight of his boy still asleep. He won't be a boy much longer, already coming up to his own broad shoulders. There's something about this time between the dark of night and light of dawn that always lead to introspection. It always had. He can see Tim's profile lit by the blue light from the window, and it's as if he's marvelling over his son as a newborn all over again. He smiles sadly as he shuts one door and opens another.

He begins to removes his clothes, tossing them in the hamper on his way to the washroom where he splashes some water on his face, rinses his mouth. If he's lucky, he can steal a few hours of sleep. He takes a moment stop by Angela's cot, her backside up in the air like a little pup - Tim was the same. He gently straightens her blanket, moves her favourite doll close at hand. "So late, Patrick?" His wife's accent is thick with sleep. He turns to her with a smile. "More like so early." He whispers, watching her sit up, pull her knees to her chest, her hair loose and flowing - glowing like gold - in the watery light. His heart grows whenever he sees her - after two years, he'd have thought it would've settled, but it hasn't, not yet. It's almost painful - but delicious. "Go back to sleep, Shelagh."

"Mmmmmm." She smiles, her eyes still cloudy, alabaster arm outstretched, beckoning . Everything hurts a little more as he eases into bed after such a long night, but a little less as his wife curls up beside him. She is warm, and slight, and soft, but her grip is strong as she uses her free hand to ease his sore shoulder. It's always the right one, the weight of his bag, the writing of notes. She knows he won't be able to sleep, not right away, and after a decade of early rising, she can rarely sleep past dawn. This is their time. This has always been their time, even before they were father and mother, husband and wife, Patrick and Shelagh. He talks, about anything, everything and nothing, she listens. Sometimes the roles are reversed, but it's the act, the act of sharing and of putting words to the wordless, that is important to them now that they can. She hums, and his thoughts run dry. There's no more need for words. There are some moments between lovers where words are unnecessary - and that is what they still are, despite everything else, lovers. They move in near silence, lovingly lavishing each other's bodies with ministrations and murmurs as the cold blue light of dawn falls over them. There's a pause, her breathing catching, then a soft sigh, a sustained musical note that he can never quite place. He falls asleep to the sensation of being surrounded by Shelagh.

She sits up, waits until she's certain he's asleep, combing her fingers through his hair, off his forehead. How much younger he looks like this, with the weight of the world off of his shoulder. He smiles in his sleep as he shifts his head into her thigh. She laughs, she cannot help it. Whenever she feels she cannot love him him more, her heart grows and makes more space for more love, more wonder, more joy. She should rise, she should begin her prayers, but finds she cannot pull herself away. Instead, she pulls her robe from the foot of the bed and wraps it around her shoulder. She feels for her glasses along the bedside table, and takes them along with her bible. She will read from here. She will pray from here. Like she did when Angela was newly delivered to them, unable to put her down for even a moment. She will give thanks as she cares for the very things she is thankful for.


End file.
